


sometime, or never

by femboysai



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: F!Reader - Freeform, F/M, Friends to Lovers, I don't know to tag yet, Kissing, Mutual Pining, Osamu low-key cannot process having a crush, Pining, Reader-Insert, Strangers to Lovers, so sweet, very safe for work as opposed to what I previously intended, very very sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:42:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27365995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femboysai/pseuds/femboysai
Summary: osamu has always loved the you that shines effortlessly.
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Reader, Osamu Miya/Reader
Comments: 9
Kudos: 103





	1. one, the existence of you

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going through a huge Haikyuu phase, resemblant to my six-year-long Naruto obsession. 
> 
> Also - we do not edit in these streets, we keep it raw. Literally.

* * *

Osamu never had any regrets. Things were much simpler before you came into the picture — blazing eyes, temperament of your reluctance to back off from a fight, assertive, outspoken — much more than he could have ever been. You wore tights under you skirt, your uniformed tarp higher than what was mandatory of Inarizaki's uniform guideline — pretence: it was easier to move without any restrictions; and the student board didn't back your claim that the female population of the school should be able to wear pants, too — straight black hair always poised in a slick pony tail. He thought the portion of your forehead was pleasant, and that it was absurd your tanned skin bruised as easily as bananas.

But Osamu always noticed odd things. Like the white bandana you wore to their matches, and then began a trend in the audience — who slowly trickled in with your strange support ritual; _fighting_! brandished against stark white, while shouting cheers of encouragement; the grimace that marred your features when you didn't understand a concept; the hop in your step when you walked; or the way you spoke — yes, _spoke_ — to your lunch before you ate it.

You were not the type of person Osamu would approach on his own, or someone he would befriend offhandedly just because. Your only tie to him — if that was what it could be called — when you were first years was your relative in his volleyball team.

Missing the standard bowtie, contrasted black sleeves beneath your school shirt, you practically tackled the team's captain, wielding a toothy grin that was made to eat boys for breakfast. "Rintarou-kun," you howled, "Good game, good game!" The boar-ish pats on the back had slant-eyed member spluttering, narrowing a glare at you.

"Sakura—" he coughed, wiping sweat that beaded on his forehead, "Can't you just come quietly?”

Of course you couldn't. That wasn't the kind of person you were. Your presence would create a scene wherever you went— always travelling at light speed. Nobody, not even Suna, could catch you. If Osamu had known what he knew now, he wouldn't have even tried — because he knew you weren't something he could hold gingerly, delicately, in his fingers no matter how much he willed it.

You weren't the name 'Sakura' in all your essence, even if you resembled the Springtime cherry blossom.

Cackling, you gave Suna another slap on the back. For good measure. And then turned to Aran with an encouraging thumbs up, dropping your bag to the floor with a clatter before launching yourself at Kita to climb his back like a chimpanzee.

"Kita-kun, you were great!" Even though Kita thought he could've performed better. (He would certainly be practicing later into the afternoons with his Senpai.)

Osamu caught Suna's gaze, the boy’s neck narrowed into his shoulders as he winced. "Apologies," he muttered to no one in particular but the whole team, raising a hand as if to apologise on his cousin's behalf. He couldn't do much to tame her. He couldn't be blamed for your unlawfulness. If anyone were to meet his cousin and her immediates, they would come to understand.

"It's quite energetic when Sakura is around," Aran said.

You were seldom late to class — unless there was a reason. Osamu wasn't in your class when you were first years, but he was when you two were both second years. He hadn't realised the extremities of the bruises or long sleeves or the shorts you wore under your skirt until he had witnessed you flying through the classroom door, panting to catch your breath — most definitely drenched in water from furiously scrubbing the dirt that married your face.

"Detention after school," droned the second-year teacher without even looking up.

"But, Sensei, I'm—!" There was no point in arguing.

"Detention," the middle-aged man pressed and you harboured a need for vengeance, your lips pulled together almost defiantly.

Osamu would later learn from the gaggle of girls who sat a desk over from him that you routinely got into fights. _Fist_ fights. He wasn't even sure if he had ever gotten into a violent implication before, other than perhaps with Atsumu, and commended you for your courage. Though he hadn't quite decided if you were brave or just plain stupid.

The fight had been with boys from another school. They had tried to bully a first year boy out of his lunch money. He then decided you were definitely stupid for thinking yourself as something heroic —

But he soon came to learn that that was a trait that couldn't be wrung out of you.

In winter, you wore turtle necks under your shirt and an oversized blazer, previously belonging to your older brother that had long since graduated. The sleeves were stretched and the colour was worn, however nobody pointed it out.

You couldn't sit still either, and despite your reputation of being a meddlesome trouble-maker, you were quite popular and well-liked by the grandeur populace.

You never missed Suna's matches. If Osamu strained his ears hard enough, he could hear your voice travelling through the thicket of noise — _Fight, fight, Su-u-na! Kill, kill, Su-u-na!_ Which he had learnt to find endearing after some time. You'd quickly developed a sense of familiarity with the rest of the team — Heisuke who blushed furiously when you got too close for comfort, and Atsumu who somewhat was fond of your nefarious personality.

"Pop rocket, that one," Atsumu had absentmindedly commented after a game as he and Osamu walked home together, their ice cream quietly melting in the plastic convenience store bag.

"Ya talkin' 'bout Sakura-san?”

“Yeah.”

His first conversation with you, he remembered it like it was a dream he had every night since he could remember.

It went something like this;

“Miya-san.”

His forehead was laid on his forearms as he tried — and failed — to catch up on his lack of sleep from the night before. Atsumu had discovered a cellphone game (his first ever) and would not quit making a fuss about it while he played for hours. Osamu seemed to be the one suffering.

Lifting his head, he blinked once. Twice. Before he realised that it was you who was talking to him first.

“Miya-san?” You tried again, because he hadn’t yet said a word to you. His brow sank. “Can I call you out for a second?” The last part was said as a whisper, hand shielding your mouth from any potential onlookers or eavesdroppers. “It’ll be quick, I promise.”

Osamu closed his eyes and opened them again, rising to a stand. Jerk of his head, he nodded and headed out of the classroom first before you teetered after him with light footsteps.

“What is it?” He asked, holding in an impossibly large yawn.

You didn’t utter a word this time, instead shoving something into his hand. You had seized his wrist, turned his palm flat upwards facing and delivered a bundle of pink parchments into it. Osamu looked at it blankly before returning to his sights to your face.

“Because our cubbies are next to each other this year, they keep mistaking _mine_ for _yours_ ,” you whispered to him, eyes swivelling from left to right. “You know what these are, _right_?”

‘Course he did. Osamu wasn’t born yesterday. But somehow he felt agitated by the notion and crumpled them as he closed his fist. Your eyes widened in surprise.

“Don’t want ‘em,” he told you sternly before discarding them in the hallway bin. He wasn’t being rude, or arrogant, or close-minded. Osamu truly just found no pleasure in mediocre love letters written by people he didn’t even know. He wasn’t his brother. “If it happens again, just throw them away.”

“Oh, okay,” you nodded, seeing no problem in it at all.

But he would never ask why you called him _Miya_ , but his brother _Atsumu._

In summer, he felt like the days went on forever before he could see you again. Suna restricted you from visiting at practices — _too_ _distracting_ , he had deemed you — and Osamu wondered why he felt restless during trainings, eyes sometimes flitting to the sidelines and becoming disappointed by the lack of something — no, _someone_ — to look at. Most times, preparation drills went all the way through the day, and then on his days off, he paced and tapped his fingers, routinely checking the calendar to see what day it was.

"Samu—" Atsumu was pulling on a shirt, one that was most definitely not his, standing in front of the mirror, "S'hot. Wanna get ice cream?”

"Get it yourself," Osamu replied as he flicked through some old issue of Shounen Jump he had lying around. "Are you wearin' my clothes again, Tsumu?”

"I'm not!" Atsumu retorted rather defensively. "I'll give it back!" A lie. And then — "I'm goin' on a date. Lemme borrow it.”

"With who?”

"Sakura-san." Osamu glared over the top of the book, lips settling into a grimace. Atsumu grinned devilishly, "Not _that_ Sakura-san. A different one.”

Osamu felt like his twin had done that on purpose.

Tossing the magazine aside, he let out a sigh and sat up — running a hand through his hair. "Where ya goin'?" Atsumu shouted as he stalked out of the room.

"Out!" Osamu replied, heading for the door.

With a _horrendously_ _long twenty days of summer left_ , he headed for the convenience store. It was hotter outside than it was inside his house. He liked the heat, sort of, and his stomach ached for something cool. He would definitely get ice cream but he wouldn't share — since his brother wanted to make such a joke at him.

 _Twenty long days of summer left_ — Osamu discovered you worked part-time at the convenience store near his house. He hadn't noticed you at first, eyes cast into a bored straight gaze, dismissing your tentative "Irrashaimasen!" as he crept in and headed for the freezer.

"Ah— Miya-san!”

And there you were— brightly lit up, toothy grin, and all. He hadn't realised the severity of how much he had something roughly along the lines of _"missed_ " or _"longed to see"_ that forehead of yours, the ponytail, the short and somewhat curvy frame of yours. There was even a bandaid taped to your cheek, evidence of a purpling bruise— probably from another fight—

"Sakura-san," he instead settled on saying, though there was so much more to be said.

"I didn't know you came to this store," you said. Peering over his shoulder, you spotted the two ice creams he was prying from the freezer. "Getting ice cream for you and Atsumu-san?”

"Nah," Osamu answered, "Tsumu doesn't deserve it.”

"Why— what did he do?”

Osamu's cheeks went red. He quickly turned his face away, half-ashamed/half-embarrassed, because it wasn't like he could tell you what had ticked him off.

"Just because," he instead justified.

You nodded your head as if somewhat understanding familial quarrels, and then walked him to the counter. You scanned up his items, and he watched your face so that he could save the image in his memory bank for when he thought of you later in the day.

"That's seven hundred and fifty yen," you recited a moment later, blazing irises refocusing on him after you had bagged his items.

Digging into his pocket, he handed you one-thousand yen, fingers brushing against yours as he dropped the money into your palm.

"And your change is—“

"Keep the change," he cut you off. "For ice cream later when you get hot.”

Your lips rounded into a perfect 'o' and you bobbed your head, pleased. "I'll return the favour one day," you insisted, but he doubted there was a deeper meaning to your words. "Thank you!”

He gave a curt bow before making his way out.

You shouted before he was out of earshot, "I work Monday through to Wednesday!”

When he got home, he threw himself face-first onto his bed and punished the mattress with hurls of fists and kicks. _"Keep the change?"_ He repeated to himself under his breath, face completely enveloped in a blush. "So—fucking—embarrassing."


	2. two, the beating of hearts

* * *

Nineteen days until summer was over. Osamu returned to the convenience store where you worked. It was Wednesday, and he had dallied around in the kitchen waiting for his mother to send him off to do something for her. He paced for hours and glanced over her shoulder every time she opened the cupboard or the fridge—

"Looks like we need more milk, Ma?”

"No, your father is bringing some home after work.”

"Oh. Are we out of gojuchang then?”

— until she finally huffed and sent him on an errand so he would leave her be.

As you had said, you were working. This time, there was another person working alongside you. Osamu didn't recognise him however you looked like you got along with him swimmingly, beaming your smile at him or laughing at something mutually amusing. Osamu didn't like it.

"Miya-san, you're back!" You greeted when he made his presence known.

"Ma needs some things," he said, showing you a short list his mother had made before shooing him out the door.

You brought your head rather close to his shoulder, peering over his arm to read the items. Memorising them, you darted around the store to collect the required things together for him. He followed you like a baby duckling, agreeing and shrugging when you asked his opinion of what brand of what his mother preferred. He didn't actually care but he wasn't going to admit that to you. Whatever you recommended, he would just take it.

"This summer's hot," you commented, after seizing the last of what Osamu needed. "How are your practices?”

"Same as always," Osamu replied.

"Rintarou-kun said I'm not allowed to come," you then huffed. "How rude is that?”

"Yeah. He's a scrub," he agreed, absolutely pleased when you start to laugh. He cracked a smile because you were smiling, and not because he had slipped up and almost confessed he was _disappointed_ that he wouldn't get to see you over summer. He supposed now he was somewhat glad because now he had a new reason to run into you.

Nineteen more days, he told himself. And then he paused in the aisle, gently latching onto the hem on the back of your shirt. From here, the other high schooler you were working with wouldn't be able to see or hear him.

"S'hot," he said to you. You tilted your head at him, unsure at what he was getting at. Hot? Yes, you knew that. That was what summer was like. And what? "Want to get coffee tomorrow?" Lamely, he added, "With me.”

That would mark his first time asking you any sort of question to do any type of activity outside of school.

"Hmm." Much to his dread, you tapped a finger to your chin as you thought about it. He felt like the seconds dragged on infinitely until you made your decision. "Just kidding!" He blanched. "It sounds fun so long as its _iced_ coffee.”

You turned on your heel and headed for the counter, giving his items to your co-worker. Osamu didn't like that very much either however the fact you had agreed to hangout with him made up for it. Your co-worker bagged his items, exchanged money and then you called him over the other side of the register.

Leaning on your elbows, you slid a paper across the countertop to him. "My number," you told him, "Text me.”

Half of your SMS vocabulary was made up of emojis. He didn't know how you typed them out so quickly but he found himself smiling at his phone when your name popped up in the chat app with little swirls of smiley faces and curled fists, or crying expressions. He could feel you through the screen.

He named a time and you agreed to be there, and the next morning— Atsumu demanded to know where he was going. Osamu wouldn't exactly tell him but twin-tuition exposed his not-so-well-kept secret.

Osamu wondered what you would wear on an occasion like this— and was pleasantly surprised to see you in a shorts. It wasn't like he hadn't seen you in a skirt before but this felt different. Sunhat over your hair that was down and a casual t-shirt that hugged your chest, he thought you were even prettier than what his memory could do justice.

"You look nice," Osamu said rather boldly when he met you outside the bus stop. You grinned widely from ear to ear.

"Thanks," you replied, "You do too. Not sweaty from practice is a good look on you, Miya-san.”

“Miya’s my father,” he said. You stopped to process that and then gave a curt nod.

“Osamu-san, then.”

You sat side-by-side on the bus when you got on, you mentioning a nice little cafe that did incredible dessert-like iced coffees. Passing small talk around, you eventually unwound your phone from my pocket and offered an earbud to him to share music. The bus ride to the town centre wouldn't be long at all but you had confessed your favourite part of public transport was listening to whatever music you felt like. In that moment, you wanted to show him your current top 5. You were the type of person who listened to the same songs until your ears bled.

Osamu didn’t have the heart to tell you he didn’t like sweet things.

Osamu texted you a lot. He was a terrible texter but he tried — for you. He much preferred phone calls so what needed to be said could be said, and then the conversation was over. But he wouldn't tell you that at all since he had made it a habit for you to receive a "have you eaten?" message twice a day without fail.

"Is Osamu...texting?" Heisuke pointed out at practice when they were allowed a ten minute break and the court cleared to down water like it was their last sip for the rest of their lives. Osamu had tossed the ball to Aran and headed for the bench, using a towel to wipe his sweat as he picked up his phone.

You were working that day.

**Miya Osamu: have you eaten?**

**Sent at 12:31pm**

**You: yessir! Cup ramen tastes best on hot days. Have u??**

**Sent at 12:35pm**

**Miya Osamu: yeah**

**Sent at 1:44pm**

**Miya Osamu: what are u doing later**

**Sent at 1:45pm**

You weren't exactly allowed to have your phone during your shifts so he wasn't expecting a reply right away. But you sent back a message just as quickly as he had, and a small smile threatened to spill.

**You: I finish at 4, wanna go to an arcade?**

**Sent at 1:45pm**

You made a certain face when you were being competitive. Eyes narrowed for concentration, nose crinkled slightly. He thought it was a whim the first— then second time, and whenever you beat him dirty you threw your arms up to cheer and whoop noisily.

But you were also a sore loser.

"You'd be terrible at volleyball," he said to you. He didn't mean it literally. But he knew that temper of yours would definitely give your opponents a run for their money— he could already see the tantrums from a mile away. Or, more accurately, the fights.

"What? Are you kidding, Osamu? With _my_ superhuman hand-eye coordination? You're insane!”

"You gloat when you win, kick and scream when you lose— and then get embarrassed," he said, listing your unintentional mannerisms. "I think you'd be blacklisted from the court within five minutes.”

You blunder. "I could kick your butt any day at volleyball!”

He arched an eyebrow. "Wanna test it?”

"Are you implying something sort of illegal?" You asked a little too eagerly, interested. (He was only planning on taking you to the school gym which was always open— since trainings were frequent, and if it wasn't his team then it was the girls' team using the court.)

"You're a bad influence, Sakura," Osamu sighed.

After some digging — and by digging, that meant talking — he found you came from a long line of martial artists. Your mother was some Brazillian Jiu Jitsu champion, and you had taken after her. When you showed him a picture, you resembled her exactly. Same straight black hair, same fiery eyes. You were so alike it was surprising.

Then, you asked him who he resembled most in his family.

He replied, "Probably Atsumu." At which you proceeded to attempt to chew his arm off for giving you cheek.

The gym was completely empty, but the door unlocked. Osamu pushed it open with ease and flicked on a light. The volleyball net was still up, considering they had practice early the next morning again. You grinned as your feet stepped on the vinyl floors, as if you were meeting an old friend again.

"C'mon, scrub. Show me an amazing spike," Osamu smirked, tossing a volleyball between his hands. His handspan gripped around the ball perfectly. You forgot for a moment that he was, in fact, a man twice your size. In yours, it took two hands and it slipped and fumbled.

Glaring at him with challenge, you pointed at him — "You're on!" Hoping he hadn't seen your hesitation.

Your wrist was sore. Splotches of red and pink battered your forearms when you had miscalculated the ball and it received in the wrong place. Osamu commended you for how quick you were on your feet, because you had managed to catch his spikes — although you failed miserably to get it back in the air. You were great at serving, perhaps even better at spiking. And even though he hadn't said you could, you often slammed the ball straight down a centimetre in front of the net on his side —

You would've been a great at volleyball.

Lying on the floor panting, you called a time-out to catch your breath and he laughed.

"Done already?”

"Don't tease me, Osamu, I'll kill ya.”

He spied the red welts bruising your skin and offered a hand to hoist you up. "Let's go to the store. Those look painful."

You huffed. "Why don't you have them too?”

He tapped his temple. "Genius," he deemed himself. You rolled your eyes and let him pull you off the floor, ignoring the ache in your arms. “C’mon."

Osamu was in front of your house. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t even a little nervous — because he was. It didn’t show on his face though. When you peered out your bedroom window, grinning, he lifted a hand to wave and he could practically hear you tear through the home until you burst from the front door.

With the doorknob in your hands, Osamu noticed there were two younger kids — maybe four and five years old — clinging to your legs, anchoring your feet to the ground, and an assembly of noise Osamu had never witnessed before poured from the open entrance. As Suna had previously insisted, your family seemed to live in something like a _zoo._

"Oneechan, where are you going?” One cried, clawing at your shorts with dried painted fingers.

"Oneechan, play! _Play_!”

Bickering in the background as you yelled over your shoulder— “Oi! Subaru, don't run with knives! O-Okaa-chan! Subaru's running with knives again!”

There was a bustle of commotion before a large wail of defiance rang shrill in the air. An older woman wandered up to the threshold, however Osamu couldn’t see her past the frame.

"Rintarou-chan is coming over for dinner— don't be late," came an older woman's voice, and then a quip, "Wait a minute, where are you even going?”

"Just hanging out with a friend, remember? I told you,” was your answer.

“Mika-chan?"

“No. I said _Miya-san._ Miya Osamu.” Osamu almost spluttered when he heard his name tumble out of your mouth. He hadn't told his parents that he was hanging out with you, much less a girl, and he wondered if _yours_ thought you were getting up to no good.

“Miya?” Repeated your mother, voice of surprise. “Hm. Why does that name sound familiar?”

"Did you say Osamu?" A younger boy's voice now. He looked around thirteen, same height as you, hair quite your opposite — unruly and wild. "Miya Osamu?”

Later Osamu would discover your younger brother, Eiji, loved volleyball. It explained why you semi-knew what you were doing when he had coaxed a competition out of you the other day. The kid practically forced you to help him out with practices at home in the backyard. (Though, your receives were still terrible. Even Eiji knew that much.)

“Ah! The Miya! Yes, yes, I _know— ah,_ I pick beets with Miya-san at the market on _Sundays_!” Your mother’s voice hollered, even Osamu heard her. “I didn’t know you were hanging out with her sons! What a coincidence.”

“Osamu’s fun,” you insisted, no-nonsense. Truly, you were making him sound more straight-edged than he was. Then you frowned, “Okaa-chan, _don’t_ go around saying _weird_ things to Osamu’s okaa-san.” Weird things being _did you know_ my _daughter and_ your _son have been hanging out?_ And _did you know that they were friends? I didn’t!_

“Don’t go, Sacchin.” That small voice was your father. He was a doting and attentive parent who swore black and blue that you would not date until marriage. Like that made any sense. He seemed like he was weathered and battered, as if he had already lost the losing fight— stopping you from walking out the door and frolicking around with the opposite sex. The day before, you had sworn it was not what he thought — and it wasn’t.

It seemed Miya Osamu’s name had flown right past your mother’s ears the first time.

"He's just a friend, Tou-chan! He's friends with Rintarou-kun, too! Don’t be so _sexist._ ” That seemed to get him, your mother giving the man a pointed stare like you had a point and then she shooed you away. He really couldn’t win.

Unlatching the two children from your ankles, you leapt down the stairs and rounded a corner where Osamu was quietly waiting. You beamed at him, eyes ringing with a shine, as you hooked around into the back and placed your hands on his shoulders. "Go, go!" Before your father tore after you.

So he did, leaving your father’s cries of frustration in the dust — at which your mother just rolled her eyes and ushered your siblings back inside.

“Your Otou-chan isn’t going to hunt me down, is he?”

You rang with laughter, fingers spread as you tried and failed to capture the wind that threaded through the gaps of your extended hand— whining and whistling.

 _“No_ ,” you hollered as if it were the most absurd thing you had ever heard. “Don’t worry about him!”

There was a river outback. It took twenty minutes to bike there, and you enjoyed the feeling of the wind in your hair. The sun was hot, but not at its peak just yet, and near the riverbank were a few familiar faces. Heisuke and Aran and Omimi, Ginjima along with a few other girls from school that you knew.

About a decade ago, someone had tied a swing to a branch to oversee over the river. It had to be drawn in by a long stick and Aran was the first to test its endurance, back flipping into the water with a cry of glee. The water was ice cold and refreshing. Sharing a delighted look with Osamu, you peeled off your clothes into the bathing suit beneath them and clambered on next.

The water swallowed you whole and you took a few seconds before breaking the surface, hair slicked back and tucked behind your ears. The sun gleamed off the water and glistened your skin.

"Osamu! Don't be a pussy, get in!”

Osamu didn't need to be told twice. Stark in swim shorts, he gripped the rope and threw himself, landing right next to you. You let out a cry as the backsplash enveloped you like a wave and you were spluttering, laughing.

Fifteen days until summer ended — Osamu didn't think it was so bad anymore. In fact he hoped it wouldn't end.

Fights with Atsumu weren't exactly uncommon. Osamu often let his trifles go since he knew Atsumu wouldn't. Despite being the younger twin, he found it was his responsibility to be the bigger man.

Atsumu's dates with the other Sakura he spoke of didn't end very well. She was seeing someone else too, and Atsumu didn't like to share. He barely shared with his own twin. He wasn't particularly hurt about it however he had hoped for something more monogamous since this was something on _his_ personal time. Which he now found to be a waste.

He moved quick though — he wasn't at a loss for potential girls to date. Osamu was the opposite; he wasn’t particularly interested.

"It was better I moved on from my Sakura-chan. Imagine if we _both_ dated Sakuras — I don't know if that's just plain weird or fate.”

"We're just friends," Osamu said, blandly. He was sitting at the kitchen table, practicing making onigiri — something like a new favourite past-time. He didn’t even spare his twin a glance.

"Friends my ass. Yer a simp.”

"Am not.”

“Are too.”

Atsumu was thinking of taking Kiyoko to the Hanabi Festival. Lanterns and fireworks — that was the perfect way to set a romantic mood. He was speaking pointedly — as if to say Osamu couldn't let summer pass him by without at least _kissing_ you, but Osamu wasn't confident that that was a good idea.

"Maybe I'll ask Sakura-san to go with me instead." Atsumu was only teasing. After all, Osamu was so adamant that he didn't like you, claiming he more so he admired your presence in a _completely_ platonic way, so his twin wanted to nudge him into a confession.

"No ya won’t."

"Maybe I should dye my hair grey and pretend'm you." Atsumu's eyes lit up at that idea, as if he realised the genius he had and applauded himself for his originality. Osamu whipped up so fast, too fast. "Give her a kiss—“ Atsumu brought his arms around himself as if to mimic _making out_ ;“—She has a real sexy body. I could show her a real good time—“

Look, Osamu had never really been one to initiate their fights. Atsumu threw the fists and the temper tantrums, and Osamu handled it, but here he was lunging for Atsumu's collar and tackling him to the ground. Fist landing heavy on Atsumu's jaw, Osamu was livid.

"What's fuckin' wrong with ya?" Osamu seethed. He hated it. Hated hated hated it when Atsumu implied lewd things about women like that. Even more so about you. That should have been clearly off limits. The smug smirk that laid across Atsumu’s face as he nursed his wounded jaw should have been enough for Osamu to want to lay into him some more.

And then Osamu realised that he had played right into Atsumu's hands.

Scowling, he released his twin and stood up, heading outside.

“Where ya going? Oi!”

“Shut yer mouth, scrub!”

Phone in his hand, he did it before he could even think straight.

"Good evening this is your conscience speaking!" came your voice on the other end. Sweet and sugary and —Osamu held his breath. "Hello...? Osamu?”

He didn’t even know why he was asking. The words tumbled out before he had a moment to second guess himself but it was much too late to save face. ”If Tsumu asked, you wouldn't go to the festival with him, would ya?”

That was a question that took you off guard. ”Hm? No, probably not." Why? Because he wasn't Osamu. You weren’t friends with Atsumu like you were with _him._

"Then go with me.”

You were quiet for a moment. You did that when he proposed things to you — things that could've easily been mistaken for dates. As much as you would have wanted to, it was too bad you had already made plans with your friends.

"Oh, I would! But I'm going with Mika-chan and Watari-kun. I'm sorry. Bu— but we can still meet up!" Osamu hummed into the phone and you thought he sounded a little off. “Hey, Osamu…” You bit your lower lip, pressing closer to your device’s screen, “You okay?”

Then he cracked a smile. “ _Yeah_." He heaved through his nose, somewhat gutted that you had already made plans. ”Are you going to wear a yukata?”

"Mika-chan is forcing me to. Kata and all. If you see me face-plant, _no_ you didn’t."

"I'll take a picture for future reference.”

"I'll kill ya!”

Watari liked you. There was no doubt about it. And Mika liked Watari. You wearing a yukata had to be the most prettiest thing Osamu had ever seen and your hair was pinned up by a Sakura blossom hairpin. You had long since given up on the kata, carting the wooden sandals around in your fingertips. Watari seemed to notice how pretty you were too.

You were hollering about catching goldfish, convincing your friends you were definitely last year's champion — completely walking past Osamu. Atsumu elbowed his brother, a small smug smirk lingering on his face. Osamu reached for you, caught your elbow and scowled. “Can’t believe ya were gon’ walk past me like that.”

Your face was crestfallen in confusion and then you recognised him, clad in a light blue next to Atsumu. The only telltale of who was _who_ were the different coloured masks on either sides of their faces and the nestle of coloured hair that poked through. You thought fox masks were quite endearing and ironic. These Inarizaki twin foxes.

“Osamu!” A grin stretched across your face. You had left your phone at home and hadn’t a way to get in touch. (Osamu had called three times— he was already embarrassed about it.)

Mika and Watari weren't surprised that you were on first name basis with the Miya twins— until you politely greeted Atsumu with an honorific, something that seemed to be absent for the grey-haired boy of the pair only. It was clear who you were more familiar with.

"Hello, Atsumu-san!”

"Sakura-san," said Atsumu, ever the devil, "You look very pretty." He wanted to add on that _boys must be lining up to get at you_ in reference to Watari who couldn’t look away from your smiling face — and Osamu definitely counted in the majority — but the glower Osamu wore staved the words in the back of his throat.

"You look pretty too," you replied with a smile. To his side, you noticed a beautiful girl — short brown hair. You didn't recognise her from your school, and you wouldn’t know for a while that Atsumu often dated girls in college. College girls were much more easier to handle, was his reasoning, they weren't nearly as irrational or as jealous as the girls in his age group. It was evident by the way Kiyoko was unbothered by the compliments he paid you, or your return.

Osamu had gears whirring in his mind. Mika did, too, it appeared as she stepped forward to invite them along to the goldfish stall you so eagerly wanted to play. She was planning to confess to Watari that night— and she would make him look at her, even if his eye was drawn away by you.

"Join us, Miya-san?" She was meaning both of the Miya, and the girl at Atsumu's side.

Osamu nodded, falling into step with you as you launched into your spiel of why you would be the goldfish champion once again. You wanted to hold a streak of hopefully another year, and as you were animatedly chatting, you hadn't realised that your friends had long dropped out of the line and disappeared within the crowd.

You turned and turned, standing on your toes to see over heads. Osamu could’ve easily pointed out exactly where his brother or your friends had disappeared off to. But he didn’t, and you hadn’t asked. Bending so that his head came nearer your ear — it was _noisy_ — chin brushing against your shoulder, he peered at you.

"I'll play with ya," Osamu said, "Unless yer scared.”

You steered your attention to him— brushing off your concern and thinking you would just find them again later. "Don't cry when you lose to me, Osamu- _chan_.”

Osamu lost. On purpose, of course. He could see the sore loser in you welling to the surface and just couldn't bring himself to take the win — not if you ended up with flames pouring out of your mouth and going on a rampage of a rage. When you won, you cheered and your eyes shone and you held your winning prize close to your chest. It was the ugliest thing Osamu had ever seen but he _pretended_ like he had _won_ it for _you_ , even if he hadn't. Not really anyway.

You would hold the winning streak another year. You were proud and engorged with glee, cockiness playing on the corners of your mouth. Osamu didn’t dare admit what he had done. "C'mon, say it. I'm the best.”

"I'd rather die," Osamu deadpanned.

"You scared?" When he looked at you, you were staring right back at him daringly.

"Scared of what? A shorty holding an ugly toy? What you gonna do — cuddle me to death?" he joked, and you hollered with laughter.

"No, I'll chew ya arms off instead!" You leapt at him, latching onto his side like a leech, clawing your way up his body like some sort of monkey, toy dangling with one arm. Teeth barred, you were a wild animal and sank your teeth into his shoulder.

It wasn't hard at all but you couldn't bite down again, laughter spilling through your gums. This was so ridiculous, you didn’t know what had come over you.

Osamu peeled you off of him with one arm — almost too easily — hooking around your front and then you were chest to chest. A firm grip on your waist, two of your hands to grasp onto his yukata so you wouldn't slip— you glanced up at Osamu's face that was far too close for comfort, and felt your cheeks heat up uncharacteristically.

"S-sorry!" you spluttered, pushing away as if realising what a compromising position this was and how anyone could just misunderstand. (You, being one of the misunderstand-ees.) He released you instantly and then you took place on your own two feet, wondering why your heart felt like it was about to explode in your chest. Just Osamu, just Osamu, you chanted in your mind.

"Firework's are startin'. Come on," Osamu said, clearing his throat. His fingers brushed yours as he reached for your kata to hold them and you nodded your head, following him toward the streamline.

The cool night air soothed your hot face— and you found a free spot just under a tree. A crowd was growing and there was only so much space until you were jammed against him. The branch above you hung low enough and, tugging on his sleeve, you pointed up at it. The gesture meant you wanted to climb up, so you did.

Osamu lifted you by your hips as your yukata restricted movement, and then he situated himself beside you shortly after you had a comfortable spot. Shoulders pressed together, you thought this was a wonderful way to bring summer to an end. With only a week to go, the new school semester was just around the corner.

The stream was glossy and calm, lanterns caressed a lovely orange hue on its surface. Osamu looked at you before the sky flowers howled and rocketed into the sky, exploding into a disarray of colours. Against your skin flashed the pink, blue, green, yellow. You counted the fireworks under your breath, and then the colours— and you were glad you had met him here.

"Sakura," Osamu said, breath fanning across your cheek.

"Yeah—" You turned your face, the stars in your eyes twinkling. He thought he didn't need to look at the fireworks if he could just look at you and see them in your pupils.

And he didn't mean to say it — truly. It just slipped out. "I wanna kiss ya." And then he leaned in, slotting his lips against yours ever so softly you might’ve thought it to be just the summer breeze.

Your eyes were wide, round like saucers, lips pressed together tightly as the oxygen in your lungs completely disappeared. You couldn't hear the booming of the fireworks over the rushing over blood in your ears, Osamu's face slowly moving away from yours.

Your lips were tingling — absolutely on fire. You were seventeen years old and, _sure_ , you had had a boyfriend in middle school, like most teenagers did. However you had never gotten past the walking home together and hand holding phases; settling on chaste looks of adoration until you both grew into high schoolers and went to separate schools. The break up hurt however you had gotten over it within a matter of days.

That had been then, and this was now. Your heart was absolutely pounding beneath your rib cage— probably so loud, he could hear it. Your middle school boyfriend had never made you feel like _that_ before.

Osamu, nose still a hair’s breadth away from yours, reached over to tuck a strand of your hair that had wrestled loose from your hairpin behind your ear and then the fireworks were over.

Slipping down from the branch, he held out his hands to let you down. You hadn't said a word, and neither had he. But Mika was loud as she yelled your name and waved you over. You were grateful that it was _dark_ at least.

Osamu quietly walked you over to them— Atsumu talking quietly with Kiyoko, and Mika holding loosely onto Watari's sleeve. She had confessed to him and he, though surprised, accepted without a moment of hesitation. It seemed his minor crush on you was only superficial, and Osamu breathed somewhat of a relieved sigh.

"I can't believe we have to go back to school so soon! I don't wanna!" whinged Mika, pulling a face. You glanced at Osamu for a split second before grinning at your friend. 

You couldn't agree more.

Osamu didn't see you again for the remaining few days of summer. His coach squeezed in extra trainings, and you were working additional hours before the new semester started. It seemed like your texts were lacking, and Osamu felt weird about calling you out of the blue— since he had kissed you, and you were being off.

It wasn't anything you said or did, more so what you didn't say and didn't do.

Heaving a sigh, he checked his phone once more and then returned to reading an issue of Shounen Jump you had gifted him. He was rereading it again for the fifteenth time. Nothing better to do.

"Where's ya girlfriend?" Atsumu asked, legs up straight against a wall. He was texting Kiyoko. Perhaps breaking things off. Summer really was ending.

"Don't have one," Osamu sniped back.

Atsumu winced as if he were pained. "Oof— rejected already?”

"Shut up, Tsumu.”

"You didn't say no.”

"She's working," sighed Osamu. "Don't talk about her. You don't know her.”

"Who said I was talkin' about Sakura-san?”

Osamu glowered.

"Konbini down the road right? Well let's go visit— get up. M'sick of ya moping around.” But Osamu talked Atsumu out of it.

The morning of the first day back, Osamu received a message.

**You: let’s work hard this semester too!**

**Sent at 6:42am**


	3. three, the amount of times he wanted to kiss you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> final chap!!

* * *

Osamu had forgotten that summer was over because the you who was always at his side no longer existed outside of part time work and routinely volleyball trainings. You were exuberant and exasperated. Your attention had to be shared, not like you could stay still anyway — and he found it harder and harder to talk to you. He was reminded of how he felt when he had first come to know you — like you were right in front of him yet so hard to reach.

You greeted him as you always did on the first day back. Osamu was much taller than you so he always had to look down, and in turn, you up at him, and his hands clasped the straps of his bag stiffly. He wanted to say something, anything. In fact, he had packed more Onigiri than he needed that morning because he wanted you to eat them _if you wanted to, that was_ — but you were gone with a whirlwind.

Contrary to your reputation, your class had voted you in as Vice Class Representative for the semester, and the responsibilities with that were included seemed to be _lacking in time_ (Osamu would let his eyes scan the area before he tried an approach, and then Class Rep Mika always towed you away) and _space_ (would that Class Rep just leave you alone already?)

He tried again on a separate occasion to corner you after school before his practices started. Kicking the cobblestones, he waited for you to come out of the Teachers’ Lounge. You faced him, eyebrows raised to your hairline, smiling sweetly. He lost his composure, words and all, only to have Suna barrel into him — _“Practice starts now. Do you want be stuck doing Suicides?”_ — and you would disappear within the moments it took to get rid of your cousin. Seriously, Osamu huffed, read the room.

He gave up eventually. The prospects of trying and failing were tiresome, he’d rather wait until the bustle of the first fews of the semester had died down. Atsumu thought it hilarious — that his twin was plagued by the universe supposedly plotting his downfall. Osamu hadn’t needed to say a word and Atsumu already knew.

Banging his head against his desk repeatedly, he wondered why the world hated him so. Summer had gone so well — the aspect of him potentially harbouring _minor feelings_ towards you, and his profuse denial all seemed to be a ploy to get him admit that, perhaps, he had been _pretending a little_ like he wasn’t interested in you in the least — it was like everyone was against him. He was being — what was the word? — cock-blocked? But that felt like too obscene a term to use in this situation.

“What are you doing, ya weirdo?” A hand slipped between his forehead and the tabletop, stopping him from meeting the wooden surface. At the sound of your voice, Osamu paused and raised his eyes to meet yours, staring back at him with concern.

He felt like he hadn’t seen you in forever. Your face, portioned forehead, slicked black ponytail, the crooked half-grin you did when you were confused and the mischief in your eyes. You were standing in front of his desk, collected assignments cradled in one arm. It was probably the first time you had _properly_ stopped to talk to him for weeks.

You put aside the paperwork, crouching down to be at eye level, and fused your cool palm back onto the top of his brow. Osamu’s ears burned red.

“Your face is hot,” you murmured, mostly to yourself, eyebrows furrowed. Then you carefully took both sides of his face to further inspect if a purple bruise was in the making — but he seemed fine. “Are you getting a fever?”

“M’fine,” he mumbled back. _Probably_ pissed off. Because he had been tossing and turning for nights on end, and thinking about the summer that had passed — the one he wanted to be over already but then suddenly he didn’t — and how you were treating him like a stranger (it wasn’t on purpose, truly) and your messages were no longer consistent.

You blinked, not believing his claims for a second, and rose to your feet. “Wait here a sec,” you said, as if he were just going to up and leave home room right in the middle of it.

Heading to the front of the class, you presented the teacher the assignments — minus _Osamu’s_ — and he observed you with flittering eyes as you pointed in his direction, bringing up your worries about his health. He caught the words _infirmary_ and _fever_ and then you were making your way back for him.

“C’mon, Osamu,” you said, and his body responded before his mind did. Slinking up from his desk to stand to his full height — and by God was he tall — you beckoned him along. (Mika thought sneakily to herself that he resembled some oversized puppy following after his master.)

“Haven’t seen ya ‘round.”

“I’m swamped,” you frowned, sighing heavily. “I don’t get it. Vice Class Rep — me? I’m the worst there ever was.”

“Good role model,” he cut you off to say before you could continue. When you fell quiet, he peered over at you and you had your lips pressed together to suppress a wobbly smile. You looked constipated. “Yer brave. Somethin’ like that.”

Of course, your teacher had pulled you aside earlier days in to give you a stern word about late arrivals and fights, and _uniform_ though that hadn’t changed much. Talking about being a good leader, setting an example. It felt like a whole lot of responsibility you didn’t want however it had grown on you over time. Mika being by your side made things a lot easier too. Didn’t stop you from dreading student council meetings and the lot though.

You much preferred summer.

“Ya miss me?” You cheekily sniped at Osamu, jabbing him with your elbow.

“Yeah,” he answered. “Feels like ya don’t wanna see me anymore.”

Your face went red.

The nurse was unavailable. Something about an injury in the oval, so you had to make do with what you had while you waited. Naturally, you began to rummage through the cupboards, muttering “where is it, where is it?” And then “Aha! Not slick at all!” When you found the _newer_ pillows and blankets stashed where they were not meant to be found. You had previously spent a lot of time there with the nurse — so you were no stranger to the hiding places and all sorts.

Osamu let you bully him into lying down while you shoved a pillow beneath his head and flung a blanket over him. He felt like _you_ were his nurse, and he had no complaints about that. Sitting down on the cot beside his arm, you pressed the back of your hand to his forehead that had significantly cooled now.

“Not hot anymore,” you muttered in confusion, “I coulda sworn—“

As you withdrew your hand, Osamu reached up to wind his fingers around your wrist to stop you. He held you there for a moment and you froze up, shoulders tense. Osamu didn’t really know where he was going with this — but he knew that while he had you now, he couldn’t let this opportunity pass.

“I said I missed ya earlier. Ya hear me, or have ya gone deaf now?” He said, eyes trained in on you without wavering.

“I’m not deaf!” You snapped back, lamely. But it put a smile on his face.

He moved your hand from his forehead to his cheek, holding it there to savour the coolness of your skin. The erratic beating started again in your chest. “Missed ya a lot. Ya listenin’?”

“Y-yeah,” was your _spineless_ response paired with a jerk of your head.

 _“A lot,”_ he re-emphasised to make sure you got the message loud and clear. “Ya don’t talk ta me in school.”

“M’sorry. Busy,” you quietly responded. Quiet on you was new. It was different.

“Ya don’t message me anymore either.”

“ _You_ don’t either,” you murmured back, a little defensively as if you were being scolded for eating all the snacks in the snack drawer at home.

“Ya want me to?”

You nodded once.

Osamu was silent for a moment. To process the way his blood felt like it was pumping so hard through his veins he might throw up. He rose up onto his elbows, pushing himself up against the headboard of the cot, pillow supporting his lower back. You watched him with a careful eye, planning to tell him off for moving around too much when he’s meant to be _sick_ , and he could see it on your face.

Small smile on his lips, he drew you forward and lifted you up — up onto his thighs. Legs either side of his hips, you straddled his waist, stomach pressed close together. It was a very intimate position, your mind almost lost its marbles. If the nurse walked in, you didn’t know _what_ you would do.

Face enveloped in pink, your tongue was too heavy in your mouth to form any plausible words, and you recalled summer— the night of the festival— getting even redder if it were possible. All this time, you were playing it off like it were just a spur of the moment action you got caught up in. People got carried away sometimes. Friends _kissed_ friends sometimes, too. Right?

Osamu was so close — too close. One heavy arm secured around your lower back to pin you against him and the other held your wrist, and you felt like your stomach was doing tumbles and swirls.

You thought he was going to kiss you for second, squeezing your eyes together violently, and he did. But it was caressingly on your right cheek. And then your left. Your forehead. And lastly the tip of your nose.

Steam omitted out of your ears as you dropped your head low and held onto his shirt with your free hand, practically _trembling._

Osamu only laughed.

Osamu was waiting for you after school. Sports drink in his hand, he offered it to you as you exited the female changing room. The girls had recreational activity while the boys’ portion of the class did their physical examinations to compare to last year. He had caught a glimpse of your class — the part where you completely obliterated the field.

That bandana over your forehead as your eyes twinkled. Atsumu had the audacity to snicker at Osamu — the grey-haired twin _clearly_ ignoring the parts where you cackled like a villainous menace and terrorised your opponents.

“She’s so cute when she’s riled up,” Osamu murmured to himself. He didn’t even know he had said it aloud until Atsumu burst his bubble with a snort.

“Ya’ve got to be the only one who thinks so.”

You were slick with heat and welcomed the cool drink with open arms. You weren’t sure how Osamu had gotten changed so quickly or how long he had been waiting for you— and you didn’t complain. Thanking him, you opened the cap and downed half of the fluids before holding it out to him for a drink. He took it carefully, blinking as he debated mentally whether or not that was a good idea, and then proceeded to without another thought.

“Volleyball practice after school?” You asked him between throwing your head back to bid farewells to the girls trickling out of the changing room after you.

“Wanted ta walk ya home,” he replied glumly.

You laughed at that, ignoring the butterflies absolutely kicking your ass. Osamu was straightforward and said what he wanted to say but you felt a bit uneasy about your friendship— he was a bit too close to consider a friend. Did he do this with all his friends? If he did, you hated the idea.

“Come watch m’practice and I’ll walk ya after.”

You would’ve liked to. Really. You hadn’t seen them do a play in a while and you wanted to see all their progress after summer however you had other things to do after school. “S’okay, Osamu.” You held up your phone, “I’ll text ya.”

His lips trembled slightly, not liking that at all. But he wasn’t about to push it and gave a reluctant nod. Throwing his forearms over your shoulders, he heaved a sigh.

“What m’I gonna do? I’ll miss ya,” he said, brow crinkled.

You snorted. “Who woulda thought you’d be such a clingy friend?”

Osamu’s frown deepened — _friend?_ “I ain’t clingy.”

“Yeah right,” you sniped. Bobbing the tip of his nose, you gave him a dazzling smile; “You can call me right after practice then.”

Jealousy came in many forms. In this case, Osamu saw red and tinges of orange framing his vision, and at first he didn’t know what the feeling crippling his gut was. You tiptoed over wooden planking settled nearby the oval, Mika and Watari and some other girl he didn’t recognise at knee-level. You were playing around, pretending to wobble, and then bursting into laughter when Mika would exclaim at you to _get down_.

You didn’t. Instead you dared someone to dare _you_ to do a cartwheel along the planking — at which Mika begged you _not_ to because it was dangerous— but you did it anyway. And fell straight onto your butt.

The oval was preoccupied by the baseball team; something Osamu wouldn’t have noticed had you not zeroed on a specific player you seemed familiar with. Hands cupping your mouth, loud ministrations of encouragement directed towards the team in the same sense that you indulged Inarizaki’s volleyball members during their matches, minus the white bandana and violent battlecries.

A boy with a buzzcut, knees matted with dirt, turned his head to look at you, pitching stance faltering ever so slightly. You had distracted him, and his throw was terrible. Your laughter was contagious, Mika and the other girl friend of yours nudging your sides reprimanding your purposeful distractions— and Osamu’s eyelids fell heavy when the buzzcut-boy dropped his team to jog over to meet you.

Mouth full of rice, Atsumu jabbed Osamu.

“Buzzcut’s goin’ for ya girl, scrub,” Atsumu commented with a snort.

“Shut up, scrub.” Because that was all Osamu could say.

(Osamu wouldn’t learn until later how you knew Buzzcut. His name was really Harata Ryuji, and he had a younger brother named Sakuta. A run-in with the neighbouring school was how you became acquainted, and Osamu already _knew_ your high-esteem of justice was not a trait to be weeded out of you. It had landed you a bloodied nose but boy— he should’ve seen the other guys.

“Please let my family treat you to dinner. Sakuta wants to see you again,” Buzzcut said.

Osamu scowled.

“I’ll contact ya when m’free but ya know…I have a lotta siblin’s and a lot to do for ‘em.”

What Osamu would also not learn until later was that you were never planning to be _free.)_

Suna looked up for a moment from his textbook to you and your poorly hidden cellphone beneath the desk; the small cackle you tried to hold in by chewing on your bottom lip. Thumbs tapping the buttons with haste, Suna sighed and wondered why you had even come over if _studying_ wasn’t really what you were doing since you had spent most of the day _texting._

“Oba-chan told me that you’re hangin’ out with Miya.” He wasn’t one to get involved. He didn’t care, really. What was your business was your business but this was _his time_ you were meddling with now.

Your eyes widened like saucers as your head snapped up, guilty for being called out. Suna knew what you were smiling at on your phone.

“Osamu, more specifically.” You buried your phone deep into your pocket, red creeping up your neck. “Pay closer attention to your studies, Sakura.”

“Sakura likes stars. Constellations.”

Osamu didn’t know in what context Suna had told him that. Interhigh was around the corner, and the conversation had turned to not allowing the audience to cause distractions. Osamu wasn’t one to be easily misled, so the warning was just general. Inarizaki’s support team were one of merciless onslaught and it worked ever in their favour. Atsumu also hadn’t stopped mentioning the shrimp in Karasuno’s team but Osamu thought about you on the sidelines.

“It’s always energetic when Sakura-san is around,” Aran commented with a head nod — clearly misunderstanding the stare Suna shot Osamu before heading for the locker room. “Does she draw momentum from Space?”

Osamu was quick to check his phone, incoming messages received from you, and he checked the weather forecast hastily.

But it was set to rain for the next following weekend — so he wondered where the nearest observatory was.

You weren’t nervous. Not on the outside anyway. Osamu swung open the front door to find you standing there — not clad in uniform but in shorts and a sweater — and he ushered you inside. His home was nice and cosy and there weren’t a gajillion kids running amuck but the kitchen smelt savoury like food.

“Ma’s makin’ food,” Osamu said. “Ya hungry?”

“Always.”

His mother was kind and tiny, the clear opposite to her giant sons, and it looked funny to see her at Atsumu’s height when he sat at the table and she was barely any taller than him. Osamu rubbed the back of his neck, introducing you to her.

“S’here is Sakura. We’re workin’ on an assignment s’don’t bother us.” The jab was mostly aimed at Atsumu who had his mouth full of rice and a knowing smirk on his face.

He made a cross motion over his chest. “Promise.”

You bowed politely at his mother who cooed at how similarly you resembled your own— a friend of hers that she frequented the market with. She confessed that when she had found out you were friends with her sons, she was ecstatic. If you were anything like your mother, she was glad she had someone to put her menacing kids in their places. Volleyball — she had confessed with an eye roll — was all that went on in their heads.

Osamu took the tray of food she had made, decorated with light snacks and tea for brain stimuli and small rice dishes, and led to you his room. He shared it with Atsumu, in which he told you he wished he didn’t, and sat at a table on the floor.

The assignment was an independent one — but Suna refused to study with you anymore, and Mika was busy with Watari. You had asked Osamu if he minded working with you on it, and he didn’t say no. His place, he had insisted, and _not to worry_ since his mother and his brother would be home too.

But he had never said he wouldn’t do anything.

Your place opposite him at the table quickly became you sitting between his legs as you read through a chapter of a textbook and he took the notes. He was much larger than you were, and the warmth you could feel through his shirt made your stomach do flips. A hand was settled around your waist, thumb rubbing circles on your hip bone.

“Ooh take note of this, Osamu,” you said, pointing out a paragraph. “Could be handy.”

 _Handy._ Osamu squeezed your flesh.

It was hardly an appropriate position, you thought as you rested into him, his chin on your shoulder as he peered over. “Where?”

“Here.” You tapped the booklet and he hummed in approval, placing a light kiss in the junction of your neck and shoulder.

And when you went home, you knew you hardly remembered anything you had studied.

It was a harsh loss. When you met Osamu outside the arena, he didn’t seemed phased but somehow you knew. Your face was rigid and you had long since lost the white bandana, vocals near stressed to absolute oblivion. He didn’t know when but you had gotten into a fight with a blonde on the opposing team, both wringing each other’s hair and ears out— yelling at who was best. Osamu wasn’t your boyfriend but she didn’t have to know that, and you swore _your_ _boyfriend_ would wipe the court with her brother’s team’s snot.

You wouldn’t confess that to him willingly though.

Atsumu was more angry than anything else. He was kicking in his locker and hadn’t come out. You wondered if he was all right but he wasn’t your top priority of people to go looking for. Osamu was.

 _“Osamu,”_ you started as he approached you. But he didn’t let you finish, winding his arms around your waist in a crushing hug. He thought the first person you might console would be Suna — as you always did — but this time it was him.

His heart was beating out of his chest.

You threaded your fingers through his hair, despite the sweat, nails lightly raking over his scalp. “That game was incredible,” you told him, “ _You_ were incredible.”

“Mm,” was his response. He was gutted. He was. However he felt somewhat relieved, and he was unsure if that was because the you he had known to not belong to him was now in his reach. He wasn’t about to let go.

“M’proud of you.” You whispered ministrations into his ear as his team took their time to collect themselves. Inarizaki didn’t qualify for the next round and coach was gut-wrenched.

When Suna pushed his way out of the changing rooms, he paused when he spotted you. And then slowly crept back into the room to bar the door. Aran asked him why he was in the way — but Suna didn’t reply.

“— _nk—you_.” Osamu’s hold didn’t loosen on you and he had barely registered the words that left his mouth.

“Whadya say?” You asked, rubbing comforting circles on his back. You had missed them completely and he stiffened with realisation.

A little more bravely, he repeated, “Said _thank you._ ”

You felt a smile creep up on your face as he rubbed his face into the crook of your neck and placed a chaste kiss there.

Winter came all too soon. And then Christmas was around the corner. Your family liked to indulge in western Christmas decorations — your father entertained the idea of _huge_ Christmas tree, which resulted in being some mediocre store bought green nestle of disaster (but the thought was still lovely) and your mother read your younger siblings stories about Japanese-Santa.

You hoped your father would still do what he did last year, and dressed up, tiptoeing down the hallways with a sack of over-wrapped gifts in the middle of the night, while your mother added to the jest that _Japanese-Santa_ really _was real_ because he had eaten the poorly baked Christmas cookies the children had made and sprinkled glitter on the floor.

Santa didn’t really ooze glitter but the theatrics didn’t matter, and Eiji was the smarter of the bunch so he hadn’t believed it for a second.

Atsumu had conned Osamu into thinking he _had_ to spend Christmas Day with you or it spelt doom for his pending relationship with you, and Mika had told you something about kissing under mistletoe. (You had to google what mistletoe was.)

After an overdone Christmas breakfast, you slipped out the door to meet him in front of your house.

Previously, you had planned to spend the day with him. However your parents had said you had to leave it for another day — since Christmas was always done together, and it didn’t make much sense if _you_ were missing.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” you said with a grin as you tumbled into his arms. It was cold outside and you only had a sweater to keep you safe from the winter chill.

“Whaddaya doin’ without a jacket, scrub?” Rubbing his hands up and down the sides of your arms, he smiled down at you.

“S’warm inside,” you insisted. Holding up a wrapped and near-butchered gift, you pressed it into his chest. “This is for you.”

Offering back a present, he said, “Then this is for you.”

“We open together on three. One, two…three.”

Pulling each other’s items from their respective packages, you both revealed light pink soft scarves. Your eyes lit up and you threw it around your neck immediately, pressing the fabric to your frozen nose.

“Did we just get each other the same thing?” Osamu mused.

“Don’t judge me. There were no other colours and pink looks pretty on you,” you said through the knit burying your face. You had used a lot of your part-time wage to buy such a nicely branded item, and you knew he wouldn’t care for what it looked like.

“I’ll wear this every day,” he insisted. “Put it on for me.”

So you did. On your tiptoes, you reached up to place the scarf around his neck and as you thought it suited him well. Almost too well. Pink was definitely his colour.

“I can’t believe you’re standing me up today.” The scowl on his face was playful and his hands settled on your sides, thumbs caressing circles into your shirt. “But I can think of ways for you to make it up to me.” Despite his demeanour, Osamu was certainly devious. Leaning down, he kissed you softly, and then you leaned into him for another.

Osamu had weaselled himself into your heart. He wasn’t even your boyfriend— there was no _label_ for this type of relationship. Late at night sometimes you wondered if he was seeing someone else too, but you never saw how his eyes strayed over to you when you weren’t looking, and _stayed_ on you; like you were the only person in the room.

Suna was the one to tell him to get it straight before you slipped beyond his grasp. That was an uncanny trait of yours. You were everywhere and then nowhere, without any second thoughts or hesitation. But he liked you. He knew he did. In fact, it was past just simply _liking_ you because you terrorised his mind daily.

“Sakura," he said to you, burying his neck into your shoulder when you reluctantly told him you had to go back inside before your parents decided to make an appearance. “Sakura.”

“ _Osamu_ ,” you quipped back.

“I like ya,” he murmured. But that didn’t seem to be the right words. “I’ve got a crush on ya.” _Still not the right words._

“What— you’ve got a crush on me?” You exclaimed in surprise.

He withdrew to look at you, frowning. _As if_ you didn’t know. Of course he liked you. He had to. “I’m in love with ya, scrub.” He squeezed you, pulling you closer against him until it was humanly impossible. “I love ya. Don’t want anyone else.”

Your brain seemed to freeze — because _yes_ you had kissed him countless times, and you spent too much of your free time texting him, talking to him on the phone, going on what felt suspiciously like dates— but still, a confession was somewhat nauseating. Ducking your head under his chin, you smothered your face into his chest to hide your blush.

_“Love you, too.”_

“Can’t hear ya.”

“I said — I love ya, too!” You glowered up at him when he was grinning down at you, smugly, cheeks red.

“I wanna see you tomorrow.”

Releasing him, you began up the steps to your house, grimace on your face because he was _teasing you,_ really — but your heart was about to leap out of your chest.

“Yes, yes!"

“Goodbye, Sakura-chan!” Osamu called, hands cupped around his mouth. “I love you!”

You waved as you closed the front door and pressed your back against it, cold hands against your cheeks to cool your blush.

You couldn’t wait to see him the next day.


End file.
